


Walk With Me

by WriterWithNoName1



Series: A Poetic Life Verse [1]
Category: Sons of Anarchy
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Juice with ADHD, M/M, Medical Procedures, Mental Health Issues, Prison, Racism, Stockholm Syndrome, Suicidal Thoughts, Tully leaves Juice alive, a lot of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2019-04-06 16:47:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14061192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WriterWithNoName1/pseuds/WriterWithNoName1
Summary: Juice gets sick in prison. What else is new?(Set in a universe where Tully doesn’t kill Juice.)





	Walk With Me

Juice doesn’t feel it at first.

He’s numb, simple as.

The cocaine is partly to blame, and the other part is that it’s simply easier to live inside his own head. But his head is where all the thoughts are; and the thoughts are loud and metallic and want him to hurt, hurt, _hurt_.

He doesn’t get the right meds here, so the thoughts and the sounds team up to conspire against him. Juice is outnumbered.

But hurt what? Anything, everything, but Juice is tired. He thinks about stealing a spork from the cafeteria and sharpening it to a point. It wouldn’t take long; and the pain might actually wake him up a little.

But Tully is watching.

He sits across from Juice and chews at his spaghetti, lazily, taking his time. His eyes flicker up, once, twice, just long enough to keep Juice pinned to his seat. He knows his pet isn’t going anywhere.

Juice thinks about the scalpel. The escape he had, it’s gone now.

Nowhere. Tully made the door to the outside vanish.

_“Sorry baby, but we’ve got unfinished business.”_

Is he lonely? Tully isn’t exactly pulling in all the pretty tail (or what qualifies as that in this place) from what Juice can see. Maybe he doesn’t want to lose the only warm body he’s got to expel his bitterness into.

Juice has nothing, he just takes it, and takes it.

He pokes at his now cold food, he knows he needs to eat some of it; otherwise, there will be trouble. The guards? No, they don’t give a rat’s ass, and the dead eyed inmates who serve as the cook’s assistants sure as hell don’t.

It’s Tully who sees, and says “eat your food, sweetheart.”

Juice wants to gag, the sentiment trickles down his spine like cold, cold treacle. It’s oddly intimate, domestic almost, as if the shot caller is his boyfriend; his _husband_.

God almighty.

He didn’t even gag when he offed the Chinese. Tully gets inside of him and creates a visceral reaction.

He pushes the plastic tray away. He can’t even look at it, he doesn’t even touch his dessert; chocolate cake, or rather a brown coloured sponge pretending to be cake. He doesn’t want to think about the taste.

Tully stops chewing, the big skinhead on his left looks concerned. He glares at Juice. “Hey, wetback, Tully said eat your food.”

“He’s Puetro Rican, Vincent, you’re bashing the wrong shade of brown.” Tully effortlessly swats the muscle bound racist away as if he’s naught but a buzzing fly, and the man quietly returns to his dinner.

To have such power, Tully must feel pretty good about himself. He’s a smug bastard through and through.

So it gives Juice satisfaction to leave his dinner untouched, it’s a win, a tiny minuscule win that gives a droplet of control back to his pitiful existence.

“Ain’t all that hungry…”

Later, it’s their ’special time’ as Tully calls it; he comes, stalking down the corridor, with the air and grace of the predator he is.

Juice retreats to a corner, he knows it’s not worth it but it makes Tully have to approach _him_ instead of Juice going by himself. It’s something.

Tully has a bag with him, and he passes it to Juice. “A present for you, baby.”

Baby. Sweetheart. Juice is not sure which one he hates more.

He wonders why Tully would bother delivering the lube in person this time, but when he tips the little package upside down what falls out is a surprise.

A mars bar, skittles, and a moon pie.

Juice stares at the sweets.

He wonders how, and concocts some story in his head involving Tully bribing a guard to allow him access to the break room snacks. 

Tully thinks he won’t eat because the food is crap, it is, but that’s not why.

If only.

“Eat up, you’ll need your strength.” He doesn’t say what for, he doesn’t need too.

Juice used to be a bargaining chip, an object in a transaction. Now? Tully keeps him around because he ‘likes’ him.

_“Boss has marked you out, brownie, you’re invincible. Just keep making him happy and you’ll live a real long goddam life.”_

Juice always wanted to be liked.

The sweets rustle in his lap.

If Juice didn’t feel like eating earlier, now he wants to vomit, spew his guts all over the floor and he knows the bile is going to burn the inside of his mouth.

Juice and sugar don’t mix well, he knows when he’s had too much it makes him jittery; like someone pushed the lever in his head up to maximum. He’s read pamphlets, he knows adding extra buzz to his already hyped up brain could cause an explosion.

Tully is waiting, his eyes are still, very still; like a dead lake.

Juice thinks about how much a second refusal will cost him, especially after Tully has gone and done something ‘nice’.

There’s a joke somewhere in his head about sugar daddies but it’s too cruel to himself to explore any further without crying.

Juice breathes in, then out. “Thanks.” He mumbles, ripping open the skittles.

They may as well be crushed glass for all he enjoys eating them; in fact, at this point in time, Juice would prefer the glass.

As much as he’s tried to hide it, Tully is too smart to fool. “You’re not right today.”

It’s a statement, no questions about it.

Juice doesn’t reply.

“Something wrong, baby?”

“I’m…good.” Juice says. It’s a giant lie, of course he’s not good, it’s been years since he’s been anything close to good.

_“Why didn’t you do it?”_

_“Already told you, sweetheart.”_

Tully comes closer, Juice wants to push himself back further into the corner but everything is fuzzy and kinda hot as well now. He just sits there, on the bed.

He’s not sure if Tully is bothered by his lack of reaction, he might be; a bully is used to the other kids flinching at his mock punches.

He puts his hand on Juice’s forehead with such unashamed ownership that Juice feels like a dog; a dog who pisses himself in anxiety whenever his master goes out. He’s not safe when Tully isn’t around.

The irony of that is hilarious.

“You’re hot.”

“Isn’t that why you’re here?” He’s not sure where the sass comes from, a small part of his old self that isn’t dead or dying yet.

The Neo-Nazi doesn’t crack a smile, or even grin, Juice doesn’t think he has the facial muscles to do that. He’s a grim, serene sack of hatred.

It’s a mistake, he shrinks back, expecting to be chastised for it.

 “You’re not well, sweetheart.”

Of course he isn’t, he’s a sick little half black rat who should be dead now but instead he’s here.

Then his own stomach punches itself somehow, or at least that’s what it feels like and Juice is caught off-guard. He clutches his stomach, eyes wide. He looks to Tully.

He’s the only one that can help him.

What a thought.

If this is Tully’s concerned face, it’s not much different to his other faces; it’s a subtle shift, his gaze switches to mild interest and puzzlement. “Are you going to hurl? Because, I just had this cell cleaned up.”

He likes to maintain their love nest.

The pain intensifies quickly, very quickly. Juice curls into a ball; he grits his teeth, this is bad, really bad.

Yes, he wants to go, but he was promised it would be painless. This isn’t fair.

Tully blurs around the edges, the darkness is coming.

“Get…someone-” He begs.

He should use this opportunity, but his self-preservation is awoken by his fear of pain. His whole life he’s been running from it.

“Hurts, does it?”

“Get someone!”

Tully raises an eyebrow.

“ _Please_.” Juice feels tears, it hurts so bad, why is this happening?

He wants to be held, his natural instinct when sick is to go to someone. He remembers being a kid and going to his mother with scraped knees and stuffy noses.

Tully nods. “Better.” He whistles, and like magic someone comes running. Juice falls to the floor, he’s losing himself to the darkness now and it’s nicer than the pain so he doesn’t fight.

“I’m no doctor, but, I think he needs some help.”

There is shouting, an alarm, and a hand in his. Juice squeezes it, pretending it’s someone who loves him. It helps.

\------

“Oh sweetheart…”

He’s in and out, consciousness is non binary.

The pain is different now, dull, not trying to eat him from the inside out. Juice can’t feel his hands or his feet.

“Don’t worry. You’ll feel so much better soon.”

Juice hopes so.

\------

When Juice finally comes back to himself his mouth tastes awful.

The lights are too bright, the sheets scratch his skin, and he’s handcuffed to the bed. It’s actually funny really, where exactly is he going to run? He has nowhere to go.

He can hear machines nearby.

The room is painted that slightly sickly muted green of hospitals, meant not to offend the eye but doing the opposite somehow.

When it finally dawns on him that he’s _outside_ , it’s all too much too fast and he nearly falls back into unconsciousness.

But he forces himself back, he needs to be awake.

The thoughts are quiet at least and that’s something Juice is going to savour for a while.

A nurse, stout and a bit mean looking like an old bulldog comes in and looks at Juice as if he’s a piece of garbage that someone has left for her to clean up; he’s used to it now though, it doesn’t faze him anymore.

“Mr Ortiz?”

“….yeah.”

Present and correct. It feels weird being referred to as a ‘Mr’.

It’s not what he’s used too.

“It’s good you’re awake. Are you in pain at all?”

It’s a standard question, Juice doesn’t think she cares if he’s hurting or not. He’s just a con burning up the tax payer’s money by being here.

“…No.”

One word answers are all he can manage right now.

“Good.” She scribbles on a chart. “Dr Yusra will be here in a moment, you had an emergency Appendectomy.”

Juice blinks. “Um.”

“You had your appendix removed.” She explains, with a tight smile, and scribbles some more.

Dr Yusra is more pleasant. She’s a young, albeit tired looking doctor who gives him a prewritten script about infection and making sure he rests and so on. He tunes out, stares at the ceiling fan, a bird outside, someone mopping the floor nearby.

The hospital is busier than prison, there are new sounds, new things to pull his mind in every direction.

The few days Juice stays there drag. He’s got no visitors and no entertainment, not even Tully is influential enough to stage a prison break to come and give him flowers, grapes and a get well card.

Not that he wants these things from Tully. He can’t.

He’s finally got some peace, sometime away, he should be relieved. But Juice is alone, and he doesn’t do well when he’s alone.

The nurse regards him as dirt, and keeps the conversation to a minimum; no hope there.

He finds himself talking to anyone who so much as comes near his room, soon enough, he’s the guy everyone wants to avoid. The two guards that watch him he don't even bother with, they’re in with Tully, they all think he’s just a weak little prison bitch.

Well, fuck them.

The food is better, which isn’t saying a lot. Being able to eat again is a good perk, he devours the lasagne they bring him, and the jello.

When he’s not asleep he does his times tables, then counts the ceiling tiles, then screws up little pieces of paper he can get a hold of and throws them at the waste basket.

He asks himself what Tully is doing.

\------

“You look better.”

Juice gives Tully a nod. “Yeah. I am.”

He expected the man to be waiting for him, he wonders if Tully has ever left the cell at all since they took him away.

There’s something off in the air, a tension that radiates from Tully and makes Juice uneasy.

“I expected you back sooner. You had your op over a week ago.”

Juice tries to be casual. “They wanted to make sure I was okay.” Truthfully, they had half forgotten about him in his hospital room, and Juice wasn’t in a hurry to remind them that he needed to be heading back to prison.

Tully gets close, real close, imposes on Juices space as if he has no right to it. “Any pretty nurses up there, baby?” He’s circling, like a shark.

“No.” Juice says. “Nurse I had was an old bitch.”

“Shame.” Tully seems satisfied, and skulks back to lean on the wall, taking out old faithful; Bronte, and scans the page. “You got a scar?”

“Little one.”

Tully turns a page, a muscle in his jaw works.

Juice gets it now, he’s _jealous_.

Tully doesn’t like sharing his things, and the thought of someone else’s hands on Juice, even in the detached way that medical professionals handle their patients must have driven him crazy. He’s been seething here the entire time.

Juice would laugh, but it would be dangerous for him. Tully is in a pissy mood.

He does the only thing he can, placate the dragon, crawl on his belly and hope for the best.

“…read me one?” He asks. “Maybe... Come walk with me?”

Juice has committed verses of that particular poem to memory, he just sits rights with him. Soothes him like old song.

_The vital sap once perished_

_Will never flow again_

_And surer than that dwelling dread,_

_The narrow dungeon of the dead_

_Time parts the hearts of men_

Tully eye’s flicker up, zone in on Juice, and he could swear that they soften. But it could be the drugs still floating in his system.

“Afterwards.” He shuts the book, tucks it away in his pocket. “Get ready, baby.”

Juice knows what to do, he doesn’t need to think. He looks forward to hearing the words after they’re done.


End file.
